


Markings

by anonymous_moose



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_moose/pseuds/anonymous_moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their suicide mission isn't a suicide, Garrus asks Shepard for a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Markings

Garrus kept staring at the stars. Ever since they'd come back through the relay, alive and well, he'd been staring more and more.

At first, he thought it was one of those near-death sort of feelings. He'd had more than his fair share of what Shepard had called "close shaves" in his life. After every one, he'd been more aware of the world around him. More appreciative of his continued existence in it. The first time he'd felt that way—felt it strongly, anyway—was after his hostile-survival training. He'd lasted three weeks in the mountains north of Cipritine, dodging patrols, hunting and scavenging for food, and trying not to break his neck in a bad fall. When they finally came to airlift him out, he'd felt that high for months afterward.

But these days, it usually passed after a week or so—experience was a double-edged sword—and he'd begun to realize he wasn't looking at the stars. He was looking for a very particular star.

"Shepard?" he said quietly.

"Mm?"

He tore himself away from the view above the bed and looked down at her. Half-lidded eyes, tousled red hair, face flushed from recent exertion. Scars on her face, her forehead, the bridge of her nose. A contented look on her face. Every time he looked at her, he tried to commit her to memory.

That, he was certain, wasn't just a near-death thing.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

She smiled slowly. "Just did."

Garrus groaned and rolled his eyes. Shepard's arm, wrapped around his stomach, squeezed him a little tighter as she chuckled.

"Sure," she said. "What is it, big guy?"

They rarely talked about anything important in her cabin. Anything that might approach serious business, they'd discussed in the mess, or in the shuttle bay, or, most often, in the main battery. He'd considered that an important distinction, and one he wanted to maintain.

So he'd try and talk around what he wanted. "Can we head to Omega, next chance we get?"

Shepard blinked, and her focus sharpened. Her smile faded, and her brow furrowed. "Why?"

"There's something I should do there," he said carefully. "Something personal."

"Should?" she asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Yeah," he said. "Before too long."

She stared at him strangely, and Garrus couldn't tell if he'd said something wrong. "I understand if its not a priority, I don't want you to think I'm—"

"Garrus," she said, "what do you need to do there?"

Worry. That's what it was.

Spirits, he was such an idiot.

"It's not dangerous," he said, shaking his head. "I don't have any unfinished business. Believe me."

She exhaled. A tension in her shoulders he hadn't noticed disappeared. "Then what is it?"

"Chakwas said the bandages could come off, soon. For good."

Her eyes widened, and she smiled a little. "Yeah? That's great. So?"

"So..." Garrus reached up and scratched at his cheek. "I need a touch-up."

Shepard looked confused for a moment. Then, as comprehension dawned, she rested her palm against his scars. He leaned into her touch, and put his hand over hers.

"Why Omega?" she asked, curiously. "There must be tattoo artists anywhere there's turians."

"It's... complicated," Garrus said. "Not just anyone can do it. I know a guy, on Omega. He owes me. And I trust him."

Shepard nodded, smiled again. She seemed relieved. "Didn't think you were so vain."

Garrus sighed. "It's not for my benefit."

She blinked again. It took a little longer for her to understand this time, but when she did, she looked... not sad, but something like it.

Their time was running out. Flying around the galaxy in a ship of their own, with a crew of their own, taking orders from no one except who they wanted to... it wouldn't last forever, and they both knew it.

The war was coming. Sometime soon, they'd have to call off their private cruise and go their separate ways. The crew would go where they wanted, Shepard would go back to Earth, and Garrus...

He wondered if he could tell which star was Trebia. If he could know where Palaven was just by looking long enough.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't want to kill the mood."

"I had to ask." Shepard rolled on top of him, resting her chin on his chest. "How long do you need?"

"Less than a day."

"Then you'll have it."

"Shepard—"

"Ship needs to pick up fuel and supplies soon," she said, all business. "Lawson can coordinate, get things done while we're taking care of this. We won't spend a second longer there than you need."

"We?"

Shepard startled, just a little, around her eyes. "Sorry, if it's a cultural thing, I—"

"No, no," he said, running a hand along her back. "You can come. It's just..."

"Personal?"

"Boring."

She laughed, softly. Her face relaxed into that quiet contentment from earlier. "I'm okay with boring."

"We both know that's not true."

"As long as it's with you, I am."

Garrus had no response to that, pithy or otherwise. He swallowed and ran a hand through her hair, gently scratching at her scalp. She hummed her appreciation.

"Tomorrow," she mumbled. "Set a course tomorrow."

"Okay," he said.

Garrus closed his eyes and concentrated on her breathing until he fell asleep.

* * *

 

"You're sure this is okay?" Shepard asked as they stepped out of the airlock.

Garrus glanced around the docking ring, checking for guns, armor, suspicious activity. It being Omega, he found a bit of all three, but nothing directed at them.

"Which part?" he asked, taking the lead. It felt a little strange, but he was the one who knew the way. And, it being Omega, it didn't feel as strange as it might have.

"All of it," Shepard said simply. "But mostly my coming with."

"Well," Garrus said, heading for a particularly disused elevator on the other side of the docking ring's marketplace, "tradition says that it's only supposed to be the soldier and his artist, alone together, until the tattoo is complete. At best, he is allowed his immediate family, or a superior officer."

"Oh."

Garrus found the elevator, shuttered and with a big "CAUTION: UNDER CONSTRUCTION" sign bolted to it. He grabbed one edge of the grated-metal shutter and heaved, and with the hellish scraping of metal on metal, it shifted open enough to get inside. He stuck his head in, and found the floor buttons still lit up.

"But I've never really cared much for tradition," he said, turning back to her. "And as for the rest? I'll live."

Shepard spared him one of her smaller, more honest smiles. "Okay."

Garrus smiled and shrugged. "Besides, these days, you go to one of these places in Cipritine, it's usually a bunch of teenage boot camp graduates, half-cut on cheap beer, hooting and hollering and singing anthems as they leave."

Shepard, face neutral, deadpanned, "Thanks for making me feel special."

Garrus laughed. Then he stepped aside and, bowing slightly, gestured inside. She smiled, and squeezed in through the gap. He followed her inside, then yanked the shutter closed.

Inside the ancient, dusty elevator, the fluorescent lightstrips along the ceiling buzzed and flickered faintly. The air was musty, and Garrus thought he saw a stain in the corner that hadn't been there before. He pressed the button for deck level eighteen, and the doors closed.

"It might be a bit. Elevators aren't as fast as the Citadel's."

Shepard chuckled humorlessly, staring at the numbers above the door. "More worried about explosive decompression, honestly."

"Don't worry. I've taken this thing a few times. It's safe."

The numbers above the door began to change, and the elevator creaked and shuddered like metal warping from heat.

Garrus cleared his throat. Shepard shook her head and muttered something about bringing her helmet.

The creaking stopped shortly and the ride smoothed out. As they neared deck eighteen and started to decelerate, Shepard reached out and briefly touched Garrus's hand.

"Thank you," she said. "For letting me come. I know it's not a big deal, but... y'know."

He smiled. "Of course."

The door opened. There were no shutters on this level. Nothing but apartments and catwalks over gaps in the construction. Garrus stepped out, leading the way.

"What's it like?" Shepard asked conversationally. "The first time."

"Kind of a personal question, Shepard."

"Sorry."

"Joking." She punched his arm and he smiled. "Oh, it's a big moment in any young boy's life. I was fifteen, a full citizen, and for once, my father was proud of me. I was on cloud ten."

"Nine, Garrus."

"Right. What I said."

"Shut up and tell your stupid story."

He grinned, turning a corner. A couple of batarians were up ahead, talking to each other. When they heard them approaching, they turned, took one look at them, then opened a door and stepped inside. Armor, weapons, and scars would do that for you on Omega.

"My father wasn't there for the process," Garrus explained, turning another corner and opening a long-deactivated security door. "He waited out in the lobby. The act of getting the tattoo, deciding on the color and the form, that's between you and your artist."

"Thought everyone got the same tattoo," Shepard said, closing the door behind them.

"The shape is the same. The form is different." Garrus stepped over a fallen vending machine, taking a moment to check over a nearby railing for any tails. Old habits, he thought to himself. "Takes a turian eye to spot the differences, really. It's something you grow up doing."

"But everyone on Palaven has yours?"

"Everyone in Cipritine. All the other major cities have their own. And all the other major colonies." Garrus turned one last corner and started counting the doors on his left, continuing distractedly. "They have their own minor differences, to tell people which city or province they're from, but if you've never been there, you'd just see Taetrus, Oma Ker, Epyrus."

He stopped, Shepard beside him. Garrus took a breath and exhaled sharply.

"We're here."

He reached out and banged on the heavy metal door three times. Then once. Then four more times. He stepped back and waited.

After thirty seconds, Shepard asked, "Do you think he's gone?"

"No," Garrus said simply. "He's here."

Shepard shrugged and crossed her arms. She kept glancing up and down the corridor, occasionally turning to look beyond the ramshackle fence behind them to the opposite block, beyond the chasm of open space and false atmosphere between them. Omega hadn't left either of them with very pleasant memories. Garrus, at least, was confident enough that this section was secure. He'd seen to that fairly recently.

After about a minute of silence, the door slid open a few inches. A turian face was on the other side. His fringe was long and sharp, and his markings were pale gold and ornate on his dark skin. His aged and weathered plates furrowed in suspicion.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"A touch-up," Garrus said.

His eyes, bright green in sunken sockets, jumped to Shepard. He sized her up quickly, then looked at Garrus again. "Who told you about me?"

"Archangel."

He stared hard at Garrus. Then he ducked inside, shutting the door. There was a clatter on the other side, the sound of various locking mechanisms shunting and grinding, and then the door slid open fully.

"Inside," the turian said, jerking his head.

Garrus walked in. Shepard followed, before the tattooist grabbed her shoulder at the door. Garrus saw her physically fight the urge to go for a joint-lock, hands flexing briefly at her sides.

"It's okay," he said quickly, drawing the old man's attention. "She's family."

The older man blinked, turned back to Shepard, and let her go. She relaxed, and stepped inside while their host moved to close and secure the door.

The inside of the old man's apartment was as cluttered as Garrus remembered. Boxes were stacked in the corners, one on top of the other. Datapads lined shelves against one wall, alongside a similar shelf of real, physical books covered in harsh turian script. The floor was covered with tools both large and small, and what furniture he could see was a collection of mismatched turian-made tables and chairs carved from Sibarian hardwood, dull greens laced with silver knots.

Shepard stood by the counter separating the living area from the kitchen. She was staring down at a collection of stained glass pieces of various colors. Garrus walked over by her side and she gave him a sidelong look.

"Thought you two knew each other," she said quietly.

"He knew Archangel," Garrus replied. "Wasn't much time for formal introductions."

The final lock slammed into place, and the old man stepped towards Garrus. He was almost a full head shorter, and he had to look up to meet his eyes. It didn't seem to bother him.

"How do you know Archangel?" he demanded.

"I was part of his team," Garrus said.

"They say his team is dead."

"Two survived."

"And Archangel?"

Garrus glanced at Shepard. She leaned against the counter and said nothing.

"He's not coming back," he said.

The old man stared at Garrus for a long moment, flexing his hooked mandibles in and out. Then he furrowed his brow and grunted.

"Figured." He extended a hand. "Ordus."

Garrus clasped it. The man had slighter hands, but a strong grip. "Garrus."

Ordus looked at Shepard, then turned to Garrus and jerked his head her way. "Family, huh?"

Garrus opened his mouth and Ordus cut him off. "Not my business. Not my problem. She staying?"

"She's staying," Shepard said.

Ordus grunted acknowledgment. Then he grabbed Garrus by the chin and yanked to the left, exposing his damaged mandible.

"Damn, boy," he mumbled, "you get hit by a rocket or something?"

Garrus laughed, briefly and without humor. Ordus turned his head to the right, tracing the pattern of his markings with his eyes. He didn't blink much, Garrus noticed, and he wondered how long he'd been doing this.

"Tier?" he asked.

"Fifteen," Garrus said, "last I checked."

"You touch this yourself?"

"Never."

"How long's it been?"

"Fifteen years."

"Without a touch?"

"Yeah."

Ordus released his chin, and Garrus flexed his mandibles. The scarred side was still stiff, and the grip made him ache, though he hadn't let it show.

"S'good work," the old man said plainly. "Fifteen years without a touch. Who was it?"

"Woman named Erid Dariun, I think."

Ordus nodded, as though filing that information away. Then he turned and went to one of the two doors in the corner of the kitchen. He keyed in an access code, and the door slid open smoothly.

He turned to Shepard. "You come in, you don't leave until it's done. You stay out here, you don't come in until it's done. Once I start, no one speaks, so any questions get asked before I lift the needle. Clear?"

Shepard nodded. Ordus gestured inside, and Garrus led the way.

If the outside was cluttered, this room was spotless. Or as much as any room could get on Omega—the metal walls were still stained with marks that no handheld cleaning agent would ever get out, and the deck plating was marked with scores and scratches, but apart from the reclining operating chair bolted to the center of the floor, the room was completely empty. No tools, no decor, no mirror. It reminded Garrus of the first time—that stark white room, totally featureless but for the chair and the woman with the needler.

Garrus remembered the routine, and climbed up into the chair without being told. Ordus loomed over him on his right, while Shepard took the opposite side, arms crossed. She looked a bit tense, so Garrus flicked a mandible to let her know things were alright.

"Changes?" Ordus asked.

That caught him by surprise, and Ordus smiled for the first time since they'd walked in, though there wasn't much humor in it.

"People come to me for all kinds of reasons," he said simply. "Some want to move. Some want to run away. I've changed, I've altered, I've replaced. Even barefaced a few."

"How?" Shepard asked.

Ordus looked up. "Acid, mostly. Used to have a laser, but that burnt out a few years ago."

"Just the touch-up," Garrus said quickly. "That's fine."

"Color?"

"Same."

Ordus huffed something like a laugh while he opened up a drawer on the side of the chair and took out the needler. "Not many people go for blue."

"Really?" Shepard said.

"Drunk fifteen year olds want to look tough." Ordus loaded a cartridge into the modified tattoo gun, checking to make sure it was locked in place. "Blood looks tough."

"That wasn't it," Garrus said, protesting weakly as Shepard grinned at him.

"Won't hear me judge," Ordus said, hooking a fresh needle into the mouth of the device. "S'where the markings came from. Blood to mark family, lineage, fealty. Then the tiers. Then the cities. Heritage."

"Who did yours?" Shepard asked.

Ordus looked up. He didn't look surprised, but he took a moment to answer. "Aunt."

"Oma Ker?" Garrus asked.

Ordus nodded, reaching up and drawing a finger across one particular band stretching down from his cheek to his mandible. "Sarlik."

"You touch it up yourself?" Shepard asked.

"Not since she died." He clicked the needler on, checked the readout, then turned it off again and looked at Garrus. "Last chance for something more mature."

"Just a touch-up."

Ordus shrugged and flicked a switch on the side of the chair. The lightstrips in the ceiling died. Arms rose from the head of the chair and moved closer to Garrus's head, then clicked on, beaming bright white light at him from both sides.

"Anesthetic?" Ordus asked.

Garrus closed his eyes and sighed. "No."

The needler clicked on. Garrus's fingers gripped the arms of his chair. Then the needle began to ghost across his plates, and he knew he'd made the right choice coming here.

There was pain, but it was slight, and easy to ignore. The scarring on the side of his face was more sensitive, but Ordus moved quickly and carefully, as if he knew exactly where the nerves were most exposed. Garrus was hot under the powerful lights, felt his plates radiating heat, and it dulled the pain as the ink settled into his skin.

He couldn't move, couldn't open his eyes, and in the quiet of the room, his whole world condensed down into pure sensation—the gentle humming of the needler, the pain, the heat, the glare on the other side of his eyelids. When he was a child, he had been near vibrating with excitement, not feeling the weight of adulthood but only the promise of its pleasures. Now, he felt instead a kind of serenity.

Occasionally, the needler would rise from his plates long enough for Ordus to dab something soft on his plates, soaking up blood, ink, and plasma. It left a strange tingling feeling in its wake—probably disinfectant or medigel soaked into a cotton towel. Then, the needler would return, and the gentle twinge of pain with it.

Garrus wasn't conscious of the time passing. So when the humming stopped, he thought he might have fallen asleep. He opened his eyes, chagrined, just as the lights went out and retracted behind his head.

"Done," Ordus said wearily. "Keep water off it for a full day. And in the future, try to avoid damage."

Shepard stepped closer, leaning in to examine his face. She said nothing, but furrowed her brow.

"Had to work around the scars," Ordus said as if on cue, disassembling the needler and replacing it in the drawer. "No point until they've finished fading. No hiding the damage."

Garrus climbed out of the chair. Shepard asked, "No mirror?"

Ordus huffed again and went to the door.

"It's not about vanity," Garrus explained while Ordus went out to the kitchen. "At least, it's not supposed to be. Parlors never have them."

Shepard nodded slowly and stared at his face. She glanced at the door, still open, then reached up and touched his cheek.

"Does it hurt?" she whispered.

Garrus flexed a mandible in a smirk, reached up and put his hand over hers. "Please," he drawled.

Shepard smiled again, the small, honest one. Then she lowered her hand and stepped away, gesturing toward the door.

Garrus stepped out, and found Ordus leaning against the counter. He looked tired, and barely lifted his head when he saw them.

"Door's open," he said.

"Thank you," Garrus said.

Ordus grunted, waving it off. "Wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. Don't make it more than it is."

Garrus knew that was as much as he could say that the old man would accept, so he nodded and went for the door. As he slid the old door open, the old man called out.

"It's a shame about that Archangel," he said. "Suppose he's in a better place now."

When he looked back, he found Ordus peering at him from his sunken sockets. He was smiling again.

"Yeah," Garrus said with a nod. "I'd say he is."

* * *

 

"You're sure it doesn't hurt?"

"Well, if you keep poking at it—"

"Sorry."

Garrus groaned and rolled on top of her, propping himself up on his elbows. "What are you so fascinated by? It's just... more blue."

"You had your eyes closed the whole time," she said. "You didn't see it."

"See what?"

"It was like..." She blew some stray hairs out of her face and stared over his shoulder at the stars. "It was like he was painting. Or... making music. It felt like watching someone create something out of nothing."

"You're awful poetic tonight."

"Shut up." Shepard poked him in the chest. "Look, my point is that after all that, and your markings barely look any different? Yeah, I'm kind of fucking fascinated."

"It's not about—"

"Vanity, I know. You keep saying that. So what was it for?"

Garrus rolled onto his back and sighed. He stared up at the stars, looking for Trebia.

"It's about respect," he said.

"Theirs?" she asked quietly. "Or yours?"

"Both."

Shepard laid on her side and looked at him. In the dark, he could see the light from the fish tank shine in her eyes.

"You know," she said, "I think this is the first time I've ever not understood something turian."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Kind of relieved, actually."

He blinked. "Really?"

"Really," she said with a nod. "Things were fitting together a bit too well. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"The what?"

"Never mind."

Shepard threw a leg over his waist and straddled him. She leaned down and kissed him, and he kissed back as best he'd learned how. She pulled back for breath, and smiled. He smiled back.

"So can I get my own?"

He closed his eyes. "Shepard."

"What? They're kinda cool. I want some."

"You're not from Cipritine."

"So? Old guy said people change them all the time. Besides, who says I want to be from Cipritine?"

"You can not. Have. Markings."

"Pfft." Shepard settled against his chest, closed her eyes, and sighed. "Spoilsport."

Garrus smiled. Atop him, Shepard's breathing slowed. After a while, she started snoring softly. He resisted the urge to open his eyes, stare at the stars, look for home again, and just enjoy the moment.

There would be hell to come, he knew. In many ways. But now, more than ever, he felt prepared for it.


End file.
